


Nova Mortis

by ThatKanraGirl



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Crime syndicate Au, Hannor, Human AU, M/M, SimKus, Simarkus, WIP, hankcon - Freeform, reed900
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-07-06 00:50:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15875134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatKanraGirl/pseuds/ThatKanraGirl
Summary: Crime syndicate AU.Everyone has a different reason for joining Jericho: revenge, answers, murder. Their reason for getting out is the same: freedom.





	1. Heart and Heist

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a thing. I'm super happy to have something of a creative streak back after four months of being able to produce next to nothing. A very special thank you to Pumagami on Tumblr for allowing me to write this after being inspired by their artwork, and another big thank you to Darkenednights on Tumblr for taking time out of her day to beta this for me. 
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> I hope you all enjoy it as much as I do! 
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> [NEW! Listen to the Nova Mortis soundtrack on Spotify!](https://open.spotify.com/user/1247054977/playlist/4HHf007o51mM9gH0ZDr3Uk?si=2ucK2re4SRSFNRepIcFYAg)  
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**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything Connor has done in his life has been with the sole purpose of taking care of his younger brother, Nines. That was why he agreed to join Jericho, an underground crime syndicate. The life of crime has grown boring and unfulfilling, but Lieutenant Hank Anderson of the Detroit Police Department keeps it interesting.

“Are you sure this is the place?” 

Connor looked the stone building up and down. The wear and tear of the ever-changing city had seen to its now decrepit state over the years. Windows once covered were now lined with broken glass, if they had any glass at all. Some were covered with wood panels, but even they looked worn from the harsh winters of Detroit. There were holes in the roof where it had caved in some places, as evidence by the tiles scattered in the adjacent alley, as well as the snow that had visibly piled up as high as the windows that weren’t boarded. 

“Positive,” a calm voice confirmed in his earpiece. 

“Not much of a break-in,” he noted with a hint of boredom as he tightened his gloves. More and more, these thefts became dull and lacked the thrill they once held for him. Maybe he was just getting too good at this. Maybe he just didn’t care anymore. 

“It’s the perfect place to hide something valuable,” Simon commented through his mask, and Connor could tell from the glint in his blue eyes that he was smirking. That, or it was the dim, flickering light from an old lamp post nearby playing tricks on him. He didn’t like Simon’s eyes. 

“Perhaps,” Connor agreed anyway, “though it’s hard to imagine that this place used to be some grand ballroom.” 

“Outer beauty has a tendency to decay with time.” Simon pulled up his hood and bounced on his heels. “It’s what remain inside that matters. Though, it’s just as easy to damage that as well, and takes even longer to recover.” 

As Connor considered his words, he found that, once again, he couldn’t find any room to argue. He never could. It annoyed him. He shrugged it off, though, and pulled up his own mask. 

“Best way in is through the third story window facing the alley,” the voice in their earpieces informed as Connor took the rope that Simon handed to him. “I hope you brought your night eyes, Simon.” Simon went rigid as he sent a glare at no one. 

“That was one time, Nines. One. Time.” 

“Once is all it takes,” Connor teased as he shuffled past him, and neither of them needed to hear Nines to know he was sitting in front of one of his many monitors smirking. “Let’s go. If we wait any longer, Reed and his drinking buddies will be lurking in the area.” Silently, Simon nodded, following behind him. Rounding the corner of the building, Connor took note of every little detail he could process. Old playbills were torn and rotted, stuck to the stone with ice and mud. The snow was piled just high enough for them to leave tracks, but Connor was confident that with the snowfall that night, they would be covered by the time they were ready to leave. Most importantly, though, was that there were remnants of those that had heisted the place before them. 

“Looks like we aren’t the first ones to fancy a dance,” he joked, and Simon snorted. 

“I wonder how many people have come here to do just that,” the blond pondered aloud. “It’s kind of romantic, if you think about it.” Simon’s voice held a dreamy tone to it, one that Connor recognized. It was both jarring and endearing. 

“I’m going to need you to focus, Simon,” Connor replied dismissively, then stopped, eyeing the third floor window as instructed. “Nines, is this it?” 

“Affirmative,” he voice replied. “You should both be lithe enough to climb up without the rope, but if you want to leave more to clean up, be my guest.” Connor and Simon looked at one another, then at the rope in Connor’s hand. They shrugged, and Connor blindly shoved it into his own backpack. 

“After you then,” Connor stepped aside, allowing Simon to get a proper angle for his climb. He watched as without any struggle, Simon was able to get enough momentum to leap from the ground and off of the opposite wall to latch onto the second story balcony before pulling himself up. He got his footing, then jumped again. His fingers gripped the ledge of the window, and he hoisted himself up the wall and through the blown out glass in a single motion. 

True, Connor and Simon didn’t always see eye-to-eye, but Connor would be the first to admit that Simon was the best back-up on any mission. Connor smiled a little behind his mask. 

“I do enjoy watching you do that,” he called up to Simon as he stuck his head back out the window. 

“Aw, you do care,” Simon cooed, watching their surroundings as Connor made the same ascension. 

“All right. Enough with the honeymoon talk,” Nines’ voice echoed in their ears and Simon helped Connor through the window. “Markus is getting jealous.” The both of them stifled a laugh at the thought of Markus sitting in their getaway car listening to the two of them banter. If Connor were being honest, he was the jealous one. He admired the love and adoration Markus and Simon held for one another. Looking at it from the outside, he could feel their happiness. Connor wanted that, too, maybe. 

There were a lot of maybes in his head these days. 

“Where to, Nines?” Simon took a few steps in and Connor followed. This place was huge – much more daunting on the inside than the outside would lead them to believe. It wasn’t the first time they had been in such a situation, but it certainly made canvasing and covering as much ground as possible harder to do. 

“On your left should be the remains of the VIP lounge. According to rumor, the rich, and even more drunk floozies would lose their fine jewelry while flirting with the barkeeps to get more alcohol.” Nines explained, and Connor didn’t miss the underlying harshness in his brother’s tone. Like his earlier conversation with Simon, he would store that info away to discuss at a later time. For now, they had lost pearls to find. 

“Is that it?” Simon sighed, disappointed, and Connor felt all too similarly. It was an easy score, and the reward wasn’t a high pay out. Mistress’s jewels weren’t worth much these days. A large diamond could fetch a pretty penny, sure, but the days of a good cut of gemstone had been long gone for decades. 

“There might be some fancy liquor left behind the bar if the squatters left any between binges,” Nines continued, and Connor smirked. 

“Something to bring home for the mister, Simon?” 

“If the price tag is right,” Simon returned the smirk before gesturing towards the bar. Markus would never turn down a good bottle, especially if there was history attached. 

Shaking his head, Connor took the lead, carefully maneuvering amongst musty, faded armchairs and shards of shattered crystal from the chandelier hanging overhead. Ice coated the floor and fixtures where the ceiling had given way, too. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet, and Connor inhaled sharply. The building was old, dated as far back as some time in the early 1900’s, if he wasn’t mistaken – he rarely was. It was more than possible that the foundation could crumble beneath their feet. 

Connor gulped. Best not to think about that. 

Creeping deeper, they noticed how thick the darkness became. The light, already dim with midnight winter, that had filtered through the broken windows had tapered off, not quite reaching the depths in which they travelled. They tried not to use flashlights on heists because it was a surefire means of detection, but Connor didn’t see much of a choice. If they were going to find anything worth value – or anything at all for that matter – they would need a light source. 

“I’m lighting it up,” Connor declared quietly, and Simon, though reluctant, nodded. Grasping at his hip, Connor brandished a long flashlight and clicked it on. Immediately, the room illuminated to reveal that they were standing just feet from their destination. 

Connor whistled quietly as they surveyed the lounge. What used to be rich, red and cream couches lined the walls. Round, high-top tables, once a dark chocolate wood, were scuffed on the surface. Dust coated every surface, but the glass-top bar remained relatively intact, including ornate bottles of liquor and the glasses in which they were served. 

“Looks like you’ll have something a little extra after all,” Connor commented as Simon brushed passed him. He leapt over the bar, the floor creaking as he landed, and took note of his selections, rubbing his hands together. Meanwhile, Connor turned, taking the light with him as he explored the lounge further. Hanging on the walls were old paintings. Some of them were portraits – Ashton Kelley, P.R. Griff, Maxine Cur, and other names were etched into gold, tarnished nameplates beneath them. Other paintings were of Detroit, or what Connor assumed was their resident city over the years. For the most part, Connor was uninterested in what history they held. 

“Are you done yet?” Yawning, Connor whined. Simon’s only reply was a soft hum. Without glancing at him, Connor sighed and went back to looking at the paintings. 

As he flashed his light on across one of the portraits, something caught his eye. A glint of sparkle, fashioned to a dapper man’s ring finger. Suddenly curious, Connor leaned closer, analyzing each detailed brush stroke. Something like this wasn’t his forte. Markus would have had a better idea of what he was looking at, right down to whether or not the artist was left or right handed, and if they had been drinking at the time. Connor used to think he was making that shit up, but years of experience coupled with watching their leader taught him otherwise. 

“What secrets are you hiding?” Connor asked the gentleman. He glanced at the tarnished nameplate. “Show me, A.J. 'Mask' Hekeil.” Slowly, he lifted his free hand, keeping the light shining on the glint, and ran his fingers across Mask’s. There were uneven divots in the acrylic, but sure enough, there was one blemish that was unlike the rest. Connor’s fingertips danced over the surface of a blue topaz, small in size, but most certainly a hidden gem. 

“Simon, I got something,” he called over his shoulder, and heard Simon grunt as he hoisted himself back over the bar. “Take a look at this.” Simon leaned over him, seemingly dazzled by the glittering stone. 

“Whoa. Impressive.” 

Maybe tonight wasn’t such a waste after all. 

“Hang on.” 

Connor flicked his eyes towards the blond, head tilting ever so slightly as he observed him move around him and study the painting. His partner wasn’t much of an art scholar either, but Simon had a particular knack for small details that Connor admired. He followed his gaze in silence as Simon stood upright again, looking past him to the opposite wall. Realization simultaneously dawned on their faces. 

“Is he – “

“Pointing,” Connor finished, and they both rushed to the painting hanging in the direction of his finger. This one was different than the others. It was abstract, painted mostly with muted creams and greys, but there was one distinguishable shape that caught their eyes. A small, lone circle near the top right corner in stark blue stuck out like a sore thumb. 

“No way is it that easy,” Simon scoffed, and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. 

“Nines, run a search for a man by the name of A.J. Hekeil.” Eagerly, Connor ran his fingers over the circle on the painting, but unlike the previous one, there was nothing significant to note. 

“A standard Google search says he was a well-off guy with some crazy obsession with treasure. Looks like he was a pretty big donator to the hall’s funds back in the day. Died shortly after it was shut down and abandoned fifty years ago.” 

“Interesting,” Connor drawled, still running his hands over the painting as if something magical would happen if he found the right spot. 

“Did you find something?” Nines asked between slurps of what Connor could only assume was his fourth or fifth Dr. Pepper that night. He really had to keep more in their place than soda and Teddy Grahams. 

“Maybe,” he replied, giving up on touching the painting. He gripped the frame, heavy and worn, and nodded at Simon, who took the hint and gripped the other side. In a fluid motion, they removed the painting from the wall. 

“You’re kidding me,” Simon set his side of the piece down and stood again. Where the blue circle had been in the painting was a small, metal latch. His jaw hit the floor after he pulled it open. 

“What?” Connor nearly pushed him out of the way to see what was inside, but there wasn’t much to see. There was definitely a manmade hole in the wall. Lined with red velvet – which Connor considered to be too much for his personal tastes – the hole contained a yellowed box, smooth and lackluster. 

“Well?” Simon nodded towards the box. “Aren’t you going to open it?” Bristled, Connor narrowed his eyes and clapped his hands before reaching inside. 

“Detroit Police!” 

Fear pricked the back of Connor’s neck in icy shards and a thrill flourished in the pit of his stomach. 

“Shit!” Simon swore, a relative rarity in of itself. “Kill the light. Nines, we’ve got company.” 

“There should be a door behind your position. Follow the hallway and head down the stairs,” he instructed in their ears. Nodding to Simon silently, Connor secured the box and the flashlight in his bag and hurried past him. He took several steps before he chanced a glance behind him to see Simon in tow with Mr. 'Mask' clutched to his chest. 

“You grabbed the whole thing?!” Connor hissed. His only response was a nonchalant shrug. 

“Markus is three blocks up,” Nines informed. Connor could hear the clicking of keys through the receiver as his brother cycled through street cameras and maps. “When you get to the stairs, you should have a clear shot to the back exit.” 

“Got it.” Connor confirmed as he and Simon reached the stairs. They both stopped abruptly, and he could barely hear the annoyed groan through Simon’s mask as they stood at the top. Thick ice coated the steps, so much so that Connor could see it glisten with even the dim light through the busted in ceiling. 

“We’ve got you surrounded!” the officer bellowed, and the boys winced in unison. 

“They aren’t kidding. Connor, get out of there. Whatever you have to do.” Nines’ tone held the slightest waver of nerves. 

“What do you want to do?” He glanced at Simon, who looked away, then nodded to himself. 

“Split up. I’ll meet you back at Jericho.” 

Connor hated splitting up. There was always the chance that one or the other wouldn’t make it back, and he didn’t like the idea that someone’s blood could be inadvertently spilled on his hands, or vice versa. Hesitantly, he agreed, and fist-bumped his literal partner-in-crime. 

“Give Markus a kiss for me,” Simon winked, and Connor couldn’t help but chuckle a little. 

“Give him one yourself.” He watched as Simon trotted quietly back the way they came, leaving Connor to figure out the dilemma with the stairs. He could take the stairs, but time was of the essence. The longer he stood and deliberated what next step to take, the closer he got to handcuffs and life behind bars. While the former could be fun, the living arrangements were lacking. As footfalls grew closer, Connor’s options became limited.

“Connor, they’re coming! Get out!” Nines pleaded, and Connor swore under his breath, but he had stalled too long. Quickly slipping behind a nearby partition, Connor took a shaky breath. His hand trembled on the gun at his hip before he gripped it tightly. Throat dry and body surging with adrenaline, he forced himself to wait it out. They wouldn’t be long. As soon as they thought that the coast was clear, they would move on. That was how it always worked. 

As the footsteps crept closer, his heart slammed harder in his chest. This thrill, this rush…he had missed it. When they stopped on the other side of the partition, Connor froze. The cop scoffed. 

“Damn burglars.” The voice was rough around the edges, but soft in the middle. It was tired, bored, emotions that Connor could relate to more and more recently, and he knew it. 

“Is that Hank Anderson?” Nines asked, but Connor didn’t answer. Color rose in his cheeks, and he licked his lips subconsciously. He’d had a handful of run-ins with the lieutenant in the past with varying scenarios, and every single time, Connor has slipped through his fingers. Smirking, Connor knew tonight would be no different. Maybe one day, maybe soon, he would allow the older man the chance to get his hands on him, but not at the cost of everyone else. It would be on his own terms. 

For now, Connor waited. Eventually, Hank gave up, and moved along the hallway, investigating and swearing. Some things never changed. Releasing the breath he didn’t know he was holding, Connor slid the gun back at his waist, then retreated back to the stairs. 

“Hold it right there, Connor!” 

Connor halted at Hank’s command, and he swore under his breath. He should have known better than to underestimate Lieutenant Anderson. The man, though older in age, was sharp. 

“I should have known it was you,” Hank sighed. “Come on, hands where I can see them.” 

“Connor, Markus is on his way. Stall him as long as you can,” Nines voice echoed in his head, and Connor nodded, complying with Hank’s orders. Slowly, he lifted his arms and wriggled his fingers, taunting him. Within seconds, several other cops, including Hank’s partner, Gavin Reed, had joined him in pointing a gun at his person. 

“I must say, Lieutenant, that if you wanted me in handcuffs, I could have been coerced if you had asked nicely,” Connor teased, and he enjoyed the flustered, involuntary grunt that escaped him. He watched Hank, unmoving, staring down the barrel of his gun. This wasn’t the end of him, that he knew. Connor was confident that Markus would figure out a way to get them out of this – he always did. That’s why he was their leader, and why Connor respected him. Hell, they were close enough that he might have considered him family. 

“Take his bag,” Hank motioned to one of the other officers, and Connor laughed dryly. 

“I would strongly advise against taking my bag, Lieutenant.” Connor leveled his eyes on Hank. This was the thrill he had been missing. The chase, the excitement…he yearned for it, and it was all here for him to revel in. Hank rolled his eyes, though, and stopped the stumpy cop from getting any closer.

“What’s in it?” he asked, and Connor grinned. 

“I thought you would never ask,” he declared cheerfully, and he delighted in watching the uneasiness settle in their faces as he continued. “You see, it’s – “ 

The ground shook beneath their feet seconds before the explosion in the alley reached their ears, and Connor took the distraction to take his chances and slide down the icy stairs. He’d give Markus shit about his idea of a diversion later, but for now, he would take the escape route that was offered to him. 

“Fuck!” Hank roared. “Get him! Don’t just stand here!” Connor, though, wasn’t about to stick around long enough for them to catch up. Smoke poured in from the first floor windows. Red and blue lights filtered through, but he didn’t have the time to make sure that there was no one waiting for him on the other side. Much like the grace Simon used to scale the building upon entry, Connor leapt through the nearest window. As he swung his legs through, a sharp pain sliced into his skin, leaving his jeans torn and his blood stained on the jagged glass. He winced, but kept running. 

“Markus is up ahead on your left,” Nines informed. “Police car one street down, Connor.” 

“Thanks, lil’ bro,” Connor huffed, and he couldn’t help smirking as Nines blew into the receiver on purpose. His brother never cared for pet names, even if it was factual. No sooner did the words slide from his tongue did he nearly crash into Markus, who had stepped out in front of him. Nimble fingers gripped his forearm tightly, dragging him into a small alleyway that was really only meant for one. 

“What the-“

“Shh.” Markus hissed and put his hand over his mouth, and Connor noted that he smelled like charred matches and gasoline, and his coat had earned a burn mark on the arm. A moment passed before three Detroit cops zipped past them on foot, including Gavin Reed. When he thought it was safe, Markus released him. 

“We have to move quick,” Markus explained as he shimmied further into the alley, careful to avoid scraping his arm on anything that would further injure him. “There’s one cop on the next block up, but that fire sent everyone in the building filing out like rats.” 

“What did you expect?” Connor whispered back. “That they were going to stay there?” 

“No,” Markus snapped as he kept moving, “I expected you not to get caught in the first place, but some drunk saw your flashlight moving in the lounge and called it in.” At that, Connor shut up. It was always the drunks that couldn’t mind their own business and sticking their noses where they didn’t belong that landed them and people like them in hot water. 

When they reached the end of the alley, Markus held his hand out, effectively halting him. He looked both ways, and Connor admired how calculated Markus was even when the police were on their backs. 

“Nines, where’s Simon?” 

“I’m unable to confirm,” Nines replied slowly. “I lost communication with him three minutes and seven seconds ago.” Connor felt guilt settled in his stomach as Markus’s face twisted. If something happened to Simon… 

“All right,” Markus said coolly, “just find us a way back.” 

“Aren’t you worried?” Connor interjected. “Shouldn’t we look for him?” To Connor’s surprise, Markus shook his head. 

“Simon is more resourceful than you think, Connor. I have complete faith in him.” 

Maybe it was the way that Markus, though telling the truth, still held worry in his mismatched eyes, or the way he smiled despite himself, but it made Connor uneasy. Uneasy, and maybe a little envious. Maybe.

Maybe. 

“Connor!” 

At the sound of his name being angrily bellowed, Connor and Markus whipped their heads around to see Hank peering through the other end of the alley at them. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Markus groaned, then grabbed his arm again, pulling him from their not-so-hidden spot and darting across the street. “Nines, talk to me!” 

“The fastest way back is through the Business District. If you can hop the last train, it’ll take you right by the marina.” 

“Take me there,” Markus said, still holding onto Connor, who bit his tongue from protesting. 

“Keep going on Market Street,” Nines navigated from his seat in the dark confines of the old freight boat. “I’m going to hack the traffic lights. That should clear up some obstacles.” 

“Get back here!” Hank yelled from behind them, and Markus finally let go of Connor. As they ran, they hopped over fire hydrants, lamp posts, and laughed when the old cop slipped on the ice trying to make a tight turn around an iron wrought bench at the bus station. 

“Don’t break a hip, Lieutenant!” Connor teased, and threw in a wink for good measure. In return, Connor received a nasty glare, and several police sirens began to echo through the mostly empty streets. Snow crunched under the feet as they ran as fast as they could, and their breaths formed a fog in their wake as they panted against the harsh cold of the December winter. 

“Where to, Nines?” Markus asked, more than aware that the police were closing in on them fast. There was only so much dodging they could do before they started firing guns, and that was the last thing either of them wanted. 

“Take a left on Gardenia and follow it until you reach Van Dyke,” the younger male relayed. “That’ll shoot you out at the station entrance. Last train leaves at 2:33.” 

“What?” Markus growled. “How much time do we have?” 

“Approximately two minutes and eleven seconds. I suggest you two get a move on.” 

“We’ll never make it,” Connor puffed as they rounded the corner onto Gardenia Street. Hank and his team were still hot on their trail, too. “We need to shake Anderson.” Markus thought as they raced through the snow and ice, the color a stark contrast on his darker complexion. They kept running. With the added weight of time against them, Connor felt just the slightest bit of panic bubble in his stomach. Their feet carried them to Van Dyke, just as Nines had said. 

“They have patrol cars blocking the entrance,” Nines told them. 

“Then we go up,” Markus said finally. Confused, Connor blinked. 

“Excuse me?” 

Markus pointed up as they approached the side of a building, giving Connor barely enough time to catch his meaning before they leapt onto stairs and trash cans, leaping and parkouring from wall to wall and forcing themselves to keep momentum as they ascended. As they landed on the roof of the station, the train had started to pull away, en route to the harbor. Laughing breathlessly, Connor shot Markus a grin. Hollers from Hank could be heard from below, exclaiming profanities loudly and arguing with Reed. 

“C’mon,” Markus smacked his arm playfully, “We’ve got a train to catch.” Nodding, Connor followed him to the edge of the building, watching the train cars go by at a steady pace. Some were filled with coal, others, machine parts. They leapt onto a coal stack, standing and watching as downtown Detroit, and Hank, disappeared into the cold night. 

When they reached the harbor, Connor felt himself at ease. These rusted, metal walls were familiar and warm, despite the frigid temperature outside. They descended deeper into the old vessel, a boat that was left to rot that they had come to call their base, until they reached a single red door. Without knocking, Markus pushed it open, causing it to creak loudly. 

On the other side, Nines was sitting on a rolling chair, surrounded by various computers and monitors. He raised a glass of white wine, a toast to them, and tipped his head. 

“Welcome home,” a voice said from their left. Simon, looking as dashing as he ever did, handed them both glasses of wine, that Connor now recognized to be one of the ones that had been sitting behind the bar in the lounge, that sly devil. Wordlessly, Markus smiled, accepting the glass and kissing him fiercely before handing Connor his own glass, which Connor took graciously.

Behind Simon, a military green flag with a fist and a triangle hung on the wall, surrounded by various graffiti, but the most obvious word was the single word that gave Connor butterflies. 

JERICHO.


	2. Paint Between the Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crime is an art not unlike the paintings strewn across Markus Manfred’s studio. Sometimes the one thing that brings a piece together comes from an unexpected source. In this instance, Simon might be the missing component for both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me through this! I'm sorry it's been so long! 
> 
> I've written and re-written this chapter so many times, and I think I finally have it at a point that I can make the story as a whole flow better. I hope. We'll see. 
> 
> ANYWAY. Thank you so much to LadyMars for beta reading this for me on such a short notice. 
> 
> Happy DBH Day!

The doors to the studio slid open as Markus approached them, the mechanism creaking with the weight of them. Sunlight filtered in through the glass walls that overlooked the garden in the back, and it was enough that Markus decided against any internal lighting source in favor of the natural light. It was a beautiful day out - blue skies and a small smattering of cloud cover - a vast difference from the dark, snowy setting from the previous night. He scanned the room, noting the placement of everything he needed with a long, content sigh, and entered. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve last seen you. Longer than I would like.” The legs of a cushioned, wooden stool dragged across a concrete floor, stopping before a blank canvas. Markus sat, empty brush in hand and stared. “I should apologize, but it wouldn’t do any good, would it?” 

He laughed to himself as he tapped the brush idly on his knee, his lips twisting into an ironic smile. “I didn’t think so.” The expanse of white taunted him, mocked Markus for his musings, but not for long. 

“I have a lot to say,” Markus continued, looking away from the canvas to turn his attention to the assortment of colors arranged on his palette. “And you’ve always been a good listener.” After a brief moment of contemplation, he dipped the brush into the dark coral paint, and in one fluid motion, spread the color across the canvas in a thick, abstract line. He remained quiet, taking the same color along the top and right edges before turning back to his paints again. 

“Something about Jericho has changed,” he uttered. “I can’t put my finger on it, but I can’t help but feeling that the end is coming.” Grabbing a jar filled with a bright cyan pigment, he laughed to himself. “It’s funny. Somehow it never occurred to me that we wouldn’t be able to keep this up forever.” With a thicker brush, he spread the color along the opposite sides of the coral, blending it along the edges to create an interesting shade of purple. 

“You always hear about the greats – people like Elijah Kamski, who can get away with any heist and live more than comfortably amongst his spoils. He’s somehow managed to keep himself out of the light of anyone that would come asking questions.” As he spoke, he flourished his brush, stopping between sentences to toss more of the cyan paint across the canvas in short bursts. 

“We started as misfits. We all had a reason to come down this path. Revenge, answers, notoriety...food on the table.” Markus paused, sighing to himself and shaking his head. “Connor and Nines were just kids when we started this. They could have done so much more than leading a life of crime out of an old, rusted freighter in the middle of the Detroit Harbor.” He clenched his brush tightly before shaking the wave of anger off and putting the brush back to the canvas. “And Simon…”

“Has his reasons, which you already know.” 

Markus turned. As he did, his eyes landed on the soft smile of a man that was too good for him. Simon had eyes that Markus could never hope to capture the color of. Even with how talented of an artist he was, the glow that seemed to perpetuate around him could never be recreated at its full capacity. He was a work of art that Markus had no part in creating, but he was still able to call him his. 

“How long have you been standing there,” Markus smirked and watched as Simon put a brown paper bag on the table by the door. Soundlessly, he moved further into the studio. 

“Long enough,” he replied slyly, peeking around Markus to get a glimpse at the canvas. Markus, however, stepped in his way.

“Hey! No peeking. You know better.” Pouting, Simon draped his arms over Markus’s shoulders and swayed from side to side, a tiny smirk curling on his pink lips. 

“Then can I at least see what color you left off with?” he asked, a hint of singsong tailing his syllables. Markus wanted to say no. He should have said no. There was a bad juju, a stigma against people seeing an artist’s work before they were ready, but all Simon had to do was bat those annoyingly sweet lashes just once, and Markus caved. Every. Time. Rolling his eyes, he held up the thick brush, still coated in cyan with a dab of strange purple nestled in the corner. 

“Ooh,” the blond cooed, but offered nothing else. 

“Really? That’s it?” Markus chuckled, setting the brush aside in favor of holding his boyfriend properly. 

“What else do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” Markus admitted. “You usually have some kind of critique or comment about my color choice.” Simon tightened his lips and looked at the discarded brush again, considering it for a moment before turning his eyes back on Markus. 

“When I see bright colors like that mixed with dull, less vibrant ones, it makes me think of doubt.”

“Does it?” Simon nodded, then continued. 

“It’s like looking at the sun, so to speak. If you could look at how beautiful it is without getting burned and shying away from it, you would. It’s radiant, hopeful, but you can’t. You’re left with having to look at it through glass, a lens, or waiting for the clouds to shift. However, the clouds change your perspective of the sun, right? It isn’t as bright as it was before. The clouds creep in and steal its luster, and you’re left thinking maybe the sun isn’t as beautiful as you once thought it was because you couldn’t ever see the full picture in the first place.”

As Simon spoke, Markus hung on every word. Put simply, Simon amazed him in ways that he thought the world had been robbed of years ago. He offered an insight to life that artists yearned to be able to put into words, and felt emotions so deeply and intensely that it was a wonder that he could function. Simon was a beautiful message stuffed in a beautiful bottle too small to contain him, and Markus was the lucky one that scooped him up from the treacherous seas. One day, he would give him his last name, of that much, Markus was certain. For the moment, though, he would settle for giving him a smile. 

“What?” The blond asked, chuckling sheepishly under Markus’s scrutiny. 

“Nothing,” Markus shook his head, “just wondering how I managed to steal the most brilliant, beautiful art thief in North America.” At that, Simon outwardly laughed and folded his arms around Markus in an embrace the painter all too willingly returned. Simon felt perfect against him – each curve and line of their bodies fit like they were made to be put together. Their noses bumped, and Markus pressed a chaste kiss to his waiting lips. 

This was love. This was the euphoria that he couldn’t put into words, and instead, he put it on dozens of canvases that he kept hidden away, just in case it wasn’t real. But oh, this was as real as it got. As their lips parted, Markus felt himself sigh, already missing the electricity. Simon’s lashes fluttered, and his arms loosened just enough for him to slide his hands over his shoulders and land on his chest. 

“What’s in the bag?” Markus broke the silence, and it was too soon. It was always too soon, because as soon as Simon shifted in his arms to retrieve the previously forgotten bags by the door, he felt empty again. 

“Some basics,” Simon called over his shoulder. “Eggs, milk, bread – “

“You got the good kind, right?” Markus asked, turning back to the painting. 

“Of what? Bread?” He heard Simon laugh as he continued rustling through the bags. “Yes, I got the sub bread that you like.” 

“You spoil me.” 

“That’s not even the best part.” Markus arched his brow and turned again, curiosity getting the better of him. Simon held up a slab of meat and a flash drive in the other. The artist straightened. 

“You saw Josh.” Markus remarked, and Simon gave him a short nod. It wasn’t that Markus didn’t like the man. On the contrary, Josh was one of Markus’s closest friends, however, it was that friendship that also forced him to keep Josh at arms-length. 

“I figured if anyone knew anything about what we found last night, he would,” the blond explained, and Markus was resigned to agree. Josh was incredibly knowledgeable – easily the most valuable asset as a professor at the state university. His skill set went beyond that of book smarts, though. The man was an information broker by night, selling what he knew to the highest bidder. Many nights had been spent striking deals and presenting treasures that had no business being in the hands of any ordinary man for just a scrap of information that might lead them towards their own goals. 

They all had their secrets, and Joshua Wells knew every single one of them. That kind of power was enough to terrify Markus in his own right. 

“He also said,” Simon continued, and Markus frowned as he watched him bite at the pout of his bottom lip, a nervous habit, “he said there was more information about Daniel’s murder, too.”

Markus faltered, lashes fluttering as he stared at his boyfriend. The air between them seemed to stagnate in the silence. Simon didn’t talk a lot about Daniel, but Markus had heard enough to know that his brother’s death was a mysterious one, and despite Simon’s efforts to move past it, the need to know what happened to him oftentimes kept him up at night. Sighing softly, Markus moved to set his brush down again. 

“You don’t have to help, you know,” Simon immediately backtracked, shoving the thumb drive back into his pocket and shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. “It’s my problem, and – “

“And what?” Markus interrupted, wiping his hands on a ratty, paint-stained towel. He crossed the small space between them, only stopping when he was close enough to feel the sharp intake of breath Simon took as he cupped his cheek once again. “I’ve told you before, I want to help you.” It was true. It was one of the reasons they had started Jericho. 

Like he said, they all had their reasons. 

“That steak will go well with one of those sticky fingered wines you procured last night,” he said thoughtfully, and Simon sighed, agreeing.

“Yeah.”

-

Black pepper, brown sugar, and sage. 

Simon hummed, a pleased smile curling the corners of his lips as he took a bite of steak. His eyes slipped shut, enjoying the mix of flavors on his tongue before swallowing the medium rare piece of meat. 

“You are a wizard,” he complimented, and Markus couldn’t help but laugh over a glass of rosé. It was light on the tongue, a mix of sweet and bitter that exquisitely accentuated the spices and natural flavors of the steak. “How do you do manage to make it better every time?”

“I don’t do anything different.” He swirled the wine in the glass and leaned back against the couch, sinking into the cushions. There was something about eating steak and drinking wine with his boyfriend sitting crossed-legged next to him, using a fancy pillow as a makeshift table that made Markus glow. It was simple, not to mention entirely untraditional. After all, there was a perfectly functional, grand oak table that sat at least twelve several feet away, but having dinner in the living room in front of the projection screen with Simon, well that was much more inviting. 

“Orgasmic,” Simon moaned, and took another bite, throwing his head back dramatically to prove his point. 

“Save some of that enthusiasm for me,” Markus teased, and Simon smirked, winking at him before taking the wine glass from Markus’s hand. He tipped the bottom up, downing the rest of the glass before setting it back in his stunned fingers. There was a challenge as well as a promise in that small action, but Markus forced himself in check. They would have plenty of time for THAT later.

Quickly, he grabbed the remote and turned on the screen, which immediately caught Simon’s attention. The thumb drive sat between them on the table, and they both looked at it apprehensively before Markus scooped it up and stood. When he inserted it into the screen, they were immediately met with Josh’s face. 

“Good day, gentlemen,” the dark-skinned man greeted, and adjusted his white-framed glasses. “I’ll try to explain these findings to you as best I can. I would rather do this in person, but I’m a busy man.” 

“Did he record this while you were standing there?” Markus asked Simon as he sat beside him again, refilling both of their glasses. Simon shook his head.

“He had all of this prepared when I got there.” They shared a look, one that wondered if Josh every actually slept, or if he was a robot, then focused on the screen again. Josh was in his office at the university, surrounded by what Markus knew was thousands of books, all alphabetized by author and genre and stacked from floor to ceiling. 

“Simon sent me the findings from your excursion last night.” Josh took a brief moment to click his tongue and silently judge them from the other side of the camera before he continued. “Unfortunately, there isn’t much I can do without the actual painting or the box in Connor’s possesion in front of me, but from the photos, I can tell you this: this A.J. Hekeil is shrouded in mystery. Nines’ Google search of him is really the only surface evidence of the man existing at all. However…” 

Josh cut the video to a screenshot of the deep web. The address bar and all of the logo information was blurred out or removed altogether, but it looked to be some kind of message board.

“Doing a search of ‘Mask’ brings back some interesting results. There are several reports of someone using the name to commit a series of minimal crimes across the country. It’s not farfetched to say that they’re mostly unrelated given the times and dates of the crimes, but if I’ve learned anything about this gig, it’s that never take things at face value.” 

Josh changed the screen again to show the reports of the crimes the ‘Mask’ has supposedly had a hand in, then skipped to a photo of a remarkably comfortably dressed man with dark hair and a beard sitting behind an ornate desk. Beside him, though out of focus and barely in the frame, was the shape of a female, possibly a blond. A smirk coupled with a cold, dead stare looked out at Markus and Simon, and they both had the decency to shiver in unison. It was unsettling. 

Beneath the photo, Josh threw up the name ‘A.J. ‘Mask’ Heheil.’ 

“There aren’t any sources that can confirm this,” Josh disclaimed, and he cleared his throat, apprehensive. There was a high-pitched click, and the letters rearranged themselves. When they stopped, Markus dropped his wine.

“No way.” 

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you the importance of this name,” Josh said slowly, cautiously. “If I were you, I would watch your next few steps.” 

The blood in Markus’s veins went cold as he stared at the letters, scrambling and unscrambling, rewinding and playing over and over again. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for this, he tried to reason. After all, they didn’t have all of the pieces. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. It was intriguing, sure, and he had to admit that the idea that ‘he’ was involved was thrilling. 

“Markus-“

“Call Connor and Nines,” Markus cut him off, tone serious and cold as he continued fiddling with the remote. “We need the rest of the pieces.” He couldn’t see if Simon nodded, but he heard the soft tap of button on his cell phone as he called the brothers. As he did, he pulled out his own phone, finding Josh in his contacts. They had to meet. 

The phone barely had a chance to ring before Josh picked up.

“I thought I would be hearing from you,” he answered pleasantly. 

“When can we meet?” Markus cut straight to the chase. If this was the situation, then they didn’t have time for cordials. 

“How soon can you be at the university?” Josh replied. 

“As soon as I have Connor and Nines.” Markus hardly had the sentence out of his mouth before he was rushing to the front door, grabbing his coat and motioning for Simon to follow. 

“I’ll be waiting.” Josh hung up, and Markus pocketed his phone, turning to look at Simon, who was also shrugging on his coat.

“They’ll meet us there,” Simon responded without being asked, and Markus nodded, opening the door for him and shutting it behind them. Left on the screen was the paused image of the bearded man with the rearranged letters.

‘Elijah Kamski.’


End file.
